Shadow Box

by Peter Cocks

  “We’re going to be moving you, Mr Mulvaney,” the officer said.

  “Where?” Donnie asked, suddenly anxious.

  “Cool it, Don,” Dave said. “It’s fine.”

  The second officer took a pair of bolt cutters from a black bag and cut through the ankle cuff that held Donnie to the bed.

  “Eh?” Donnie looked around, confused.

  The two policemen helped Donnie to his feet. He stood unsteadily while Dave threw an overcoat around his shoulders.

  “Can’t I even get dressed?” Donnie pleaded.

  “Stow it, Don, just follow the officers,” Dave instructed.

  Uncharacteristically meek, Donnie let himself be led barefoot from the ward by the police officers. Nurse Lianti watched him. “Where you going, Mr Donald Duck?”

  Dave put his finger to his lips and winked at her.

  “Police business,” he said. He flicked his wallet open and showed an American Express card and membership to a gambling club.

  Donnie was bundled into a service lift with Dave and the two policemen. Several floors later, they spilled out at the back of the hospital, where, among the bins and incinerators, Dave Slaughter’s BMW was waiting. As soon as they were in, Dave squealed out of the loading bay and shot down Homerton high street and onto the main road out towards Hackney Wick. The police officers in the back laughed, took off their helmets and undid their uniform jackets. Job done. Donnie was confused.

  “Get in!” one said.

  “Nicely done, gents,” Dave grinned.

  “Them uniforms were the dog’s,” the second officer chuckled.

  “Mate of mine used to work on The Bill. Half inched a dozen of them. All pukka. Apparently they burnt the rest because one or two herberts got ideas for armed robberies,” Dave said.

  Donnie gurgled a low chuckle, finally catching on.

  “Fake plod? Fuck me, Dave. You got some big brass bollocks.” Donnie turned to the two hired hands in the back. “Fake effin’ plod, fuck my old boots.” Donnie’s laugh turned into a spasm of chesty wheezing.

  “Steady on, Don,” Dave said. “You’ll chuck your ring in a minute.”

  “Or cough up a gold watch, Dave,” Donnie spluttered, still laughing.

  Dave doubled back onto the A13 and headed south through the Blackwall Tunnel. Donnie always felt a sense of relief once he was south of the river. Within five minutes they were outside a pub on the industrial riverfront in Woolwich. Dave and the two fake policemen sank celebratory pints and smoked, while Donnie, still in his pyjamas, stayed in the car with the door open, his bare feet on the pavement. He looked across the Thames and sipped his first beer in some time.

  “Enjoying that, Don?” Dave asked.

  “Taste of freedom, Dave.”

  “Make the most of it while it lasts.”

  “Where am I going to hole up, Dave?” Donnie asked.

  “You can bunk at mine for a bit till we get you sorted.”

  Donnie continued to shake his head in disbelief at the audacity of his release. His fear of another stretch for GBH or worse had grown like a tumour while he was under police guard, and even now he had escaped, he knew his freedom would be short-lived. He wouldn’t be able to hang around on the manor for long. He felt the ground shift beneath his feet all over again.

  The door rattled and daylight streamed into the box again. I didn’t know how long I’d been in there; I’d slept and lost track of time.

  I was dragged back into the room, legs still not fully functioning, and made to stand.

  There was another man with them now, this one in a dark suit. I wondered what additional torment he was there to inflict. All three continued to wear full-face, but then they blindfolded me, most likely so they could take off their masks.

  “So, Kieran. How d’you feel after your morning’s work?” the new man asked. “Ready to tell us a little more?” The accent was as unthreatening as that of my first interrogator, but I knew from my earlier beating that this meant nothing.

  “I guess you’re hungry, so we bought you a Mars bar.”

  A lump of chocolate was put into my hand. My mouth was completely dry. I didn’t want it.

  “Eat,” the first man ordered.

  A hand guided my own to my mouth. The warm chocolate touched my lips and the sickly smell was strong in my nostrils, making me dry heave.

  “Eat.”

  I bit off a lump and tried to chew, but the chocolate and toffee turned to glue in my mouth.

  “Have some crisps, too.”

  A bag of cheese and onion was opened and a fistful of crisps stuffed into my mouth after the Mars bar. Then another, and another. I gagged.

  “Ready to talk now?”

  I attempted to speak, but the broken crisps and molten chocolate stuck around my throat and teeth, making a sticky noise. I gagged again, spitting chocolatey drool onto the floor. A bottle of water was held to my lips. I sucked on it greedily, flushing down the chocolate and relieving my thirst. Cold water trickled down my chin and neck, making me shiver.

  “My colleague here has spoken with Martin Connolly and done a bit of investigating,” the new man said. “We think there’s more to you than meets the eye, Mr Kelly.”

  “Lie down,” the second voice told me. His hands pushed me by the shoulders to the floor. I felt a chain being attached to my ankles, then an electronic winch powered up and took the tension. I was hauled up by the chain until I was hanging upside down. My hands were taped behind me again and I felt dizzy as my body circled, suspended by the ankles.

  “Comfortable?” my new interrogator asked. I didn’t answer. “So tell us about your family.”

  I tried hard to concentrate as the blood pulsed through my head.

  “My dad was called Patsy Kelly. He lived in Spain. He was killed last year.”

  “Who killed him?”

  “We don’t know. Most people think it was my uncle who ordered the killing.”

  “Tommy Kelly?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s doing life.”

  “If you know anything about him, you’ll know that prison doesn’t stop him killing people.”

  “What do you know about Tommy Kelly?”

  I didn’t know where to start.

  “I didn’t see much of him when I was growing up, just Christmas and that. I worked for him for a bit a couple of years ago. Just doing computer stuff, building websites for some of his businesses. The stuff he can’t do.”

  “Are you working for him now?”

  “No,” I said. Was I?

  I heard a cigarette being lit and then felt the heat as it was held close to the thin skin above my wrist.

  “Are you working for him now?”

  “No!” I shouted. “I hate him. He killed my old man!”

  The heat withdrew, but the threat remained – I could still smell the smoke close to me.

  “So what’s your interest in him now?”

  “I’d like to see him brought down, properly.”

  “Are there others who think like you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who?”

  “There must be hundreds … people on the firm, everybody he’s stitched up, every family who’s lost someone because of him.”

  I heard a dry laugh from one of my torturers, took it as a cue.

  “As far as I know, Tommy was supporting the IRA; he’s a sympathizer. He’s big on the Irish connection.”

  “He’d butter us up with a few grand so’s he could flood Belfast with his cocaine and not get his hands dirty.”

  “That’s his style,” I said. “He’s always been two steps away from the business. Or he was until Jason got involved.”

  “Jason?”

  “His son. My cousin. He fucked up big style.”

  “What do you know about it?”

  “I was involved. With a guy called Paul Dolan. They reckon it was Dolan who tipped off the police and got Tommy caught.”

  “What do you know about Paul Do
lan?”

  “Only that he ran The Harp, and worked for Tommy now and again.”

  I thought I had been doing well until I felt the cigarette burn into my skin. I bucked and yelled as the burning pain flushed through my body.

  “What do you know about Paul feckin’ Dolan?” The voice became more urgent.

  “What I said!” I screamed. “And that he got an early release.”

  “Any other names? People on the firm, people you’ve met through Tommy Kelly?”

  I thought hard.

  “Terry Gadd in Spain. There’s a Russian called Bashmakov who Tommy stitched up, he’s a big player – drugs, arms – I met him in Croatia, helped set up a deal.”

  “What deal?”

  “Stolen paintings. I was just Tommy’s runner.”

  They were silent for a minute.

  As I twisted in pain, my shirt had worked loose and became rucked up around my chest. I felt a finger to the left of my navel, where I had the scar from the bullet wound.

  “What’s this?”

  “I got shot, a couple of years ago.”

  “Who by?”

  “I think it was Donnie Mulvaney, Tommy’s hitman.”

  “Why’d he shoot you?”

  “Because I messed up.”

  “Did it hurt?”

  “Like fuck.”

  “Well, it’ll be over quicker this time. You’re really not keen on Uncle Tommy, are you?”

  “I told you. I got shot.”

  “So why are you still involved?”

  “Only revenge,” I said. “For my dad, and for me … and I want to find my cousin, Sophie.”

  “Sophie Kelly?”

  “Yes. She’s missing.”

  “Why do you want to find her so much?”

  “She’s his weakness. He’ll do anything for her.”

  “Well, you’ll not be finding her here. You’re not quite the little innocent you were making out, are you, Kieran? You’re an old hand.”

  “I’m not innocent … but I’m not guilty of nicking a few bags of pills.”

  I could hear two low voices whispering to each other, deciding, I imagined, what line of questioning to pursue next. Possibilities of increasing tortures flashed through my brain and I felt sweat run upwards from my chest, salty and stinging on my cut lips. I tried to blank out the images from my mind, but they wouldn’t shift.

  A bullet would be preferable.

  The electric winch clicked into action again and I was lowered to the floor. This stage of my interrogation, I guessed, was over.

  “Thank you for your information, Kieran Kelly,” my interrogator said. “Useful. But there are a couple of things that don’t get you off the hook. We’d be … uncomfortable with you still around, poking about. So this is where we say goodbye.”

  I felt myself being lifted by the ankles and shoulders and taken outside. It smelled like evening. I had completely lost track of time during my ordeal. My legs smarted, and the burn on my arm stung, but the terror and disorientation were far stronger.

  “I’ll deal with this,” the third man said.

  I was loaded into the boot of a car. I could smell old petrol and fear.

  Someone else’s petrol, my fear.

  The boot thudded shut and I heard a door slam and the engine start. I was bumped around as before, every jolt reminding me of the pain that had been inflicted on me. I was glad that my interrogation was over, but now I was heading towards the conclusion.

  Dave’s house was a neat semi in Plumstead, south London.

  A pair of concrete horse heads flanked the entrance to the car port and Dave swung the BMW into the narrow space between them.

  Donnie sat on the leather sofa and looked around the tidy lounge at the pictures of grandchildren arranged on the mantle above the fake log gas fire. He felt a glimmer of envy for Dave’s family life.

  “Thank you, Pam,” he said politely as Dave’s wife handed him tea in a cup and saucer. The dainty china was dwarfed in Donnie’s hand and he could barely get his finger through the handle of the cup. Pam stooped to remove a bit of fluff from the carpet as she went back to the kitchen. House-proud didn’t come close to describing the level of tidiness and cleanliness that Pam maintained. Dave’s shirts were always ironed, his grey suits always spotless and pressed. Sitting in his pyjamas and bare feet, holding the cup by the rim, Donnie felt he made the place untidy just by being there.

  “Better find you a bit of clobber, Don,” Dave said.

  “Thanks, Dave.”

  “You’ll be in Tiffany’s room,” he told him, referring to his recently married youngest daughter.

  Donnie followed Dave up the stairs and into a small, feminine room at the front of the house. The bedspread was flowery, with a frilly valance that brushed the floor. The room was scented by a plug-in air freshener that smelled of apricot and vanilla. A cushion embroidered with a heart and a soft toy poodle sat on the pillow.

  “Pam likes to keep it looking nice,” Dave said, as Donnie sniffed the air and looked at the girly bed. Dave handed Donnie a blue shirt on a hanger and a pair of black trousers. “These should fit,” he said, patting his stomach and looking at Donnie’s paunch. “I lost a bit of weight since I wore them.”

  “Thanks, Dave.”

  Silky black socks and shoes that hadn’t seen the light of day since the 1980s followed. When he was suited and booted, Donnie went back downstairs, noticing instantly that the shoes pinched.

  Flat feet and bunions: Donnie always had problems with shoes.

  They spent what remained of the afternoon watching Deal or No Deal, shouting at the screen.

  Dave had a lot of time for Noel Edmonds: “Self-made millionaire, got his own helicopter, castle in Devon. Never had to shoot anyone to get where he is. Although he did drop that bloke in a tin box from a great height and kill him.”

  Donnie nodded, vaguely remembering a stunt that had gone badly wrong on one of Noel Edmonds’ shows.

  At 6 p.m. Pam laid the table and presented them with a roast dinner. Having eaten hospital food for too long, Donnie piled in, trying to remember his manners and not lick his knife – nor the pattern off the plate – when he had polished it off.

  “Very nice, Pam, thank you. Tasty.”

  “You was hungry, Don,” Pam observed, wiping a splash of gravy from the tablecloth near Donnie’s plate.

  “Seconds, Don?” Dave asked.

  Donnie wolfed down a second plate of roast chicken while Dave poured more red wine. Conversation mostly centred on Tiffany’s wedding.

  “Vintage cream Rolls, matching cream silk dress,” Dave said. He was exuberant, with two pre-dinner gins and quite a lot of wine in him.

  “She looked like Kate Middleton,” Pam added proudly.

  “Champagne reception at Charlton House – Jacobean, used by royalty. All on the guvnor. He done us proud.”

  “Any faces?” Donnie asked, trying to find an area he was familiar with.

  “Not really, it was Tiff’s day. Dave Courtney and Roy Shaw come to the reception,” Dave said, name-dropping a celebrity gangster and an ex-bare knuckle champion. “Just the top end. We wanted low-key, no old lags talking about the old days.”

  Donnie realized that he hadn’t been invited, even though he’d worked with Dave for years. Maybe he was an old lag himself. Dave seemed to realize his faux pas at the same time and there was a pause in conversation.

  “How’s your daughter, Don?” Pam asked, breaking the stalemate.

  Donnie was stumped for a moment. He couldn’t remember when he’d last seen or heard from Donna. Last he knew, she’d dropped another kid by another bloke and her current boyfriend was doing time for dealing.

  “Fine,” Donnie said. “Yeah, good.”

  “Grandkids?”

  “Yeah, think so. Good. All good.”

  He now felt keenly envious of Dave and Pam’s domestic set-up. Although Dave was a villain, he was the kind who always managed to keep his nose clean and everything in
order. Hunky Doris. Donnie couldn’t remember any family weddings; neither his own, nor his daughter’s. There hadn’t been any.

  Donnie always ended up in the shit. And he was suddenly very tired. He felt an unfamiliar lump in his throat and a tear well in his eye. Suddenly had a memory of his old man giving him a thick ear for crying when he was a kid. Pam quickly cleared the table and clattered dishes in the kitchen.

  “Summink in me eye,” Donnie said. He grabbed a piece of kitchen roll and rubbed hard at his eyelid.

  “You’re tired, Don. Have another drink and turn in early.”

  Donnie drained another glass of wine in silence and Pam announced she was taking Brandy, the Bichon Frise, out for a walk.

  Once she had gone, Dave leant over.

  “We need a quick debrief, Don.”

  Donnie sighed deeply. “Not now, Dave. I’ve had enough.”

  “Enough of what, Don?”

  “Everythink,” Donnie said.

  “Don’t be like that, Don,” Dave said. “You’re old-school. Chin up.”

  “I’m getting too old for this, Dave. Now I’ve got an eight stretch hanging over me if I get collared.”

  “You’re just overtired, Don. You can have a few days’ R&R here, then we’ll work out what to do. I’ll have a word.”

  Donnie looked blankly at the tablecloth while Dave went across to the drinks cabinet. He came back and plonked half a bottle of Scotch in front of Donnie.

  “Here you go. Turn in with a nightcap – you’ll feel back up to scratch in the morning.”

  Like an obedient child, Donnie took the whisky up to his bedroom. He pulled the frilly duvet up under his chin and nursed the bottle until he nodded off.

  I felt the road become smoother, and the car began to slow down. Fragments of muddled prayers flew around my brain like a swarm of flying insects colliding and battering against the inside of my skull. I had an overwhelming desire to see my mum. I’d not seen her for nearly six months. I should have been more dutiful, should have visited more often. She worried about me, with good cause.

  I thought about Sophie: my quest to find her had been nothing more than a misguided wild goose chase, over before it started. And others: Juana; Tony; Anna. People I would never see again. People who might never find whatever shallow grave I would be buried in.